A Vigil in the Mourning (Soulbound #4) - Hailey Turner Page 0,16
more business than the other two. A handful of men hanging out by two low-riders watched him get out of the SUV. Patrick didn’t bother with a look-away ward on his gun or dagger, and the badge hanging from his neck was easy enough to make out.
His face stung from the cold winter wind until he entered the pawnshop, passing through two sets of doors that helped keep heat in and the cold out during winter.
A bell chimed overhead, and the hint of magic that washed over Patrick’s shields wasn’t human in the least. He shoved his sunglasses up onto his head, taking in the pawnshop. Glass display cases took up most of the floor, with shelves lining the three walls filled with items accessible only to employees. The windows up front were bare of items, the security bars on the outside made of iron and filled with magic.
Patrick doubted the owner had a problem with break-ins, despite the neighborhood.
A pair of Hispanic men in winter parkas, jeans, and boots looked up from whatever they were perusing in a glass case. The rapid conversation they had in Spanish ended with them heading for the exit, abandoning whatever they’d come to look at. The employee who had been helping them didn’t watch them go, his dark brown eyes focused on Patrick.
The recognition burning through Patrick’s soul and magic was one he hadn’t felt in years, not since he was on the Hellraisers and they’d run a mission in the Kandahar mountains. Ifrits tended to prefer the countryside over the density of mortal cities, but beggars couldn’t be choosers in a rapidly developing world.
“Long way from your ancestral home,” Patrick said in greeting as he walked forward.
The ifrit smiled slightly and picked a tray filled with small idols and loose items off the glass countertop, returning it to the display case below. “Certainly more profitable.”
“Yeah, I can see that. Is the owner in?”
“You’re talking to him.”
Patrick came to a stop in front of the ifrit, sizing the demon up. His fingers twitched with the urge to reach for his dagger. The ifrit looked human, with dark brown skin, black hair and beard, and a smile that wouldn’t look out of place on a car salesman selling secondhand vehicles. He wondered why Kelly hadn’t mentioned the owner was an ifrit, unless she didn’t know. Witches weren’t mages on the power scale, and most mages didn’t have Patrick’s unenviable ability to recognize and hunt the darker aspects of the preternatural world.
Patrick looked away from the demon to take in some of the items for sale in the display cases before him and the shelves on the wall. Magic of varying power was embedded in some of the pieces, making them artifacts in their own right. Even more were nothing more than common, everyday items.
The place looked legitimate, but the owner—by virtue of what he was—said it wasn’t.
Patrick hooked a thumb around the chain his badge hung from and lifted it for the ifrit to see. The badge didn’t have his name, just his agent identification number on it. The less information he gave up here, the better. “I’m with the SOA. I’m here to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course you are.” The ifrit smiled. “Words are fine. I deal in words all the time. But if you don’t have a warrant or subpoena for anything else, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
Patrick hummed thoughtfully before unsheathing his dagger and laying it down on the glass countertop. The ifrit froze, his smile becoming tacked on as he stared at the matte-black blade resting between them, all the power of the heavens and their many prayers capable of incinerating him with one little cut bound to the weapon.
“I’m not from around here,” Patrick said mildly. “I know what you are, just like you know what this dagger can do to you. I’ll come back with a search warrant if need be, but you’re going to tell me the truth when you speak today.”
Patrick kept his fingertips resting on the hilt of the dagger, his attention locked on the ifrit’s pale face. The demon leaned away from the counter a little, putting some distance between himself and the threat of death in the shape of sharp edges.
“Ask your questions,” the ifrit spat out, the veins on his face pulsing fiery red, like lava, beneath his skin for a second before calming down.
“People are selling you favors, but we both know that’s not what they’re actually giving